The room was empty as Gabriel walked up to an oak cabinet set against one wall and opened one of the side compartments. He was famished – he hadn’t eaten all day – and he eagerly helped himself to a portion of bread and ham from the food locker inside the compartment. Then, with a large glass of red wine taken from a crystal decanter sitting on top of the cabinet, Gabriel went to sit in one of the wing-backed leather armchairs set in front of the room’s bay window.
He quickly finished his meal. And he was quietly sipping his wine, when the mess door swung open and the chief strode into the room.
‘Stay seated, Gabriel,’ the chief called across as he walked over to the cabinet. ‘I’ll come and join you, but I need a drink first.’
He poured himself some wine, and then came across and flopped into the armchair beside Gabriel. He swallowed a mouthful of wine, then looked across at Gabriel and shook his head. ‘What a damned fiasco,’ he said.
It was rare for the chief to use profanity and Gabriel smiled as the older man continued. ‘You don’t know the half of it. A catalogue of mistakes and bad luck.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Colonel Harrach is furious and holds General Potiorek personally responsible for this catastrophe.’
‘Why?’
‘Apparently, even after the grenade was thrown at the convoy, Potiorek carried on with the day’s schedule as if nothing had happened. They went to City Hall, where the Mayor was meant to be giving a speech of welcome. But the Archduke was clearly upset after the attack and stated that the visit was over.’
‘So why didn’t they go straight back to Illidza?’
‘Because Potiorek suggested the Archduke might want to visit the garrison hospital to see Colonel Merizzi. Colonel Harrach opposed this detour, but Potiorek was very keen and gave assurances it would be safe.’
‘I see.’ Gabriel puckered his brow. ‘Well, after the grenade attack, the possibility of other assassins in the crowd must have been obvious. With so few gendarmes on duty, getting the Archduke to a place of safety should have been the priority.’
‘Exactly what Colonel Harrach said, but he was overruled by Potiorek. And then to make matters worse, their car took a wrong turning; the driver had not been told about the change of plan. As they turned into the wrong street, Potiorek realised the error and brought the car to a stop right outside Schiller’s café.’
‘And do we know how the assassin came to be inside Schiller’s?’
‘Plain bad luck,’ the chief said before taking another sip of wine. ‘Apparently, a few minutes after we ran out to help Merizzi, a depressed-looking man came into the café, ordered a coffee and sat down at the very table we had just left. Moritz remembered he looked very out of place: furtive-looking, scruffy. So this man orders a coffee and sits there for twenty minutes, looking gloomy, and then outside the café a car comes to a stop. Moritz is curious to see what’s happening, so he goes across to the window and sees it’s the Archduke’s car. Then this fellow leaps up from the table, barges past Moritz and runs out into the street. He pulls a pistol out of his coat pocket and…well, the rest of the story you already know.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Gabriel said, shaking his head. ‘I almost feel sorry for Potiorek. He’ll have to live with this for the rest of his life.’
‘Well that’s quite generous, Gabriel, considering what he did to you after the Archduke died.’
Gabriel flinched at the memory of Potiorek hauling on his collar. Then his face softened and he smiled.
‘It’s not the first time I’ve been assaulted by a distraught friend or relative of a patient of mine. That, I don’t take personally. But I am angry that Potiorek took them to the Konak instead of the garrison hospital. Not that it would have made much difference, I suppose, but what was he thinking?’
‘Colonel Harrach said that Potiorek panicked after the shooting. I suspect he was in shock, just not thinking straight.’
‘Bad decisions all round,’ Gabriel said. ‘Not what you would expect from a good leader. Well, I suppose that’s his career finished.’
The chief stroked his beard. ‘It certainly doesn’t look good for Potiorek: he invited the Archduke on St Vitus Day, the worst possible time; he was responsible for the inadequate security; he gave assurances for the Archduke’s safety on the return trip to the hospital. There will be a court of inquiry of course, but I suspect he’ll resign or be dismissed as Governor. It’ll be an ignominious end to his career.’
‘And what about the assassin? Anything known about him yet?’
‘A Bosnian youth by the name of Gavrilo Princip, apparently. According to Colonel Harrach, Princip’s a member of Young Bosnia, an organisation dedicated to the creation of a Greater Serbian state. Harrach is certain that Serbian Nationalists are behind this.’
Gabriel frowned. ‘Wasn’t the youth who tried to assassinate Potiorek’s predecessor a member of Young Bosnia?’
‘Yes. Some chap by the name of Zerajic, but he didn’t do as well as Princip: it’s his skull you saw gracing Potiorek’s desk.’
Gabriel grimaced. ‘Don’t remind me – it was nauseating, like some gory trophy. I’m surprised at General Potiorek: what kind of man would do a thing like that?’
‘You don’t get to the top without being ruthless, Gabriel.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, you don’t need much imagination to know what will happen next.’
‘We’re going to war, aren’t we?’
‘Yes,’ said the older man, and Gabriel felt a flicker of anticipation. This was, after all, something he had been training for all these years: an opportunity to put to good use the skills he had so painstakingly acquired. ‘I’m certain,’ continued the chief, ‘that Vienna will use the assassination as justification for sorting the Serbs out, once and for all: ever since we annexed Bosnia, the Serbs have been nothing but trouble. And as our 6th Army is closest to Serbia, you can be sure we will be in the thick of it.’
‘But we should easily defeat the Serbs, shouldn’t we chief? After all, we have twice as many soldiers as they do.’
‘Unless Russia gets involved: if they come to Serbia’s aid, we’ll have to divide our forces.’
‘But if Russia supports Serbia, won’t Germany come to our aid—’
‘—which would bring Britain and France into the war,’ the chief said. ‘Don’t forget; they’re also Russia’s allies. So you can see how delicate the situation is.’
Gabriel fell quiet: a war between Austria and Serbia had always been on the cards. But the idea of Russia and Germany – perhaps even Britain and France – becoming involved, seemed almost too much to take in. Gabriel’s parents hadn’t the money to send him to medical school, so the only way he had been able to train as a surgeon was to accept a military scholarship which had stipulated he must serve a term of ten years in the army medical services. Gabriel had always been aware he might have to go to war someday and wasn’t daunted by that possibility: indeed, he felt ready to deal with whatever a war might throw at him. But a war that might involve most of Europe…
‘Well,’ the chief said, interrupting Gabriel’s chain of thought, ‘it looks as though you will soon be given an opportunity to continue your wound research in men, rather than pigs.’
For a moment Gabriel was taken aback, but then he grinned at the older man’s black humour. ‘Mind you, chief, the way some of our men behave…’
Chief Fischer laughed. ‘How is the research going, anyway?’
‘Quite well, I think. The studies on pig cadavers are almost finished and I should have the results ready for the London surgical conference this August. Herr Roth has been most generous in allowing me to use the ballistics laboratory at his factory for the tests—’
‘Which brings me back to the question I asked you this morning,’ the chief interjected, ‘which you were saved from answering by the terrorists grenade: how are you and Dorothea getting on?’
Gabriel smiled ruefully as he realised the older man has deliberately steered the
conversation back to that question. He had first met Dorothea Roth a few months ago, whilst doing research on the wounding effects of different bullet shapes. The chief was a long-standing friend of Georg Roth, and after being introduced to Gabriel, Herr Roth had agreed to provide him with a supply of bullets and cartridges as well as the use of his factory’s extensive ballistic testing facility. Over the past year Gabriel had often travelled to the factory to carry out his research and had frequently met Dorothea.
‘Last time I saw her she was very well. Why do you ask?’
The chief placed the empty wine glass on the floor by his chair. ‘Well, Gabriel, Dorothea’s a lovely young woman – she’ll make a good wife. And Georg tells me he really likes you.’ He brushed a fleck of lint from his trousers and then looked up at Gabriel again. ‘I think you ought to seriously consider asking him for permission to marry her.’
Gabriel fidgeted in his chair. Dorothea was a good-looking woman; there was no doubt of that. She had thick dark-hair and an attractive figure, and Gabriel had been surprised to learn that she was not yet married. But although he liked her well enough, there was something missing, a vital spark that seemed lacking whenever they engaged in conversation. He knew the chief would have loved nothing more than for him to propose to her, but…
‘I know Dorothea is a fine young woman,’ Gabriel said. ‘I also know she’ll make a good wife for somebody. But I’m not sure that person is me. I’m so busy with my research right now—’
‘You need to realise,’ the chief interjected, ‘that there’s more to life than research, Gabriel. Dorothea is an eligible young woman, who will not wait forever.’
Gabriel sighed and turned away.
‘You are very gifted with the scalpel,’ the chief continued, ‘and you make good clinical decisions. But sometimes you can be quite naïve, particularly with women.’
Gabriel smiled to himself. He knew this last comment to be true: that because he was so focussed on the science and art of surgery, he had neglected to pay much attention to the social aspects of his profession.
‘And career advancement is dependent on more than just ability,’ the chief continued. ‘The empire is not a meritocracy and you need to be seen to be doing the right things, with the right people, at the right time. I only have your interests at heart, and I’m telling you that people may well ask questions as to why a thirty-five-year-old surgeon has not taken a wife. They may come to a wrong conclusion.’
‘But General Potiorek isn’t married…’ Gabriel said without thinking, and then immediately regretted his words as the older man gave him a look of warning. He realised that the chief must have also heard the rumours about Potiorek and Merizzi, but his mentor’s expression told Gabriel this should not be discussed further.
‘What I mean,’ Gabriel said, trying to extricate himself, ‘is that being married doesn’t necessarily—’
‘This Colonel Redl business,’ the chief interjected, ‘has made people very nervous. That the head of the Austrian Secret Service, no less, could allow himself to be blackmailed over his homosexual inclinations into spying for Russia has shaken Vienna to its core. That the poor man managed to salvage some dignity by shooting himself before it came to trial is a moot point.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘My point,’ the chief interrupted again, and Gabriel could hear the fatigue in his mentor’s voice, ‘is that there is more to being a successful surgeon than simple surgical ability.’
Gabriel knew better than to argue. ‘I know you have my interests at heart and I’m grateful for your advice. I’ll think carefully on what you say.’
‘That’s all I ask.’ The chief stretched his arms and yawned. ‘And talking of wives, I must return to my own. It’s been an eventful day.’
‘Of course.’
The older man stood and wished Gabriel goodnight and then left the room.
And Gabriel was once more alone with thoughts from the morning, a collection of random images and sounds from the Konak: the Archduke calling for his wife, the blood-stained Ottoman couch, the look in Potiorek’s eye as he hauled on the back of Gabriel’s collar. But the most unsettling thought of all was that, very shortly, Gabriel would be going to war.
5. London. Thursday 16th July 1914. Evening
Another hot summer’s day, but by early evening the streets of Paddington were beginning to cool as Elspeth left her lodgings to join Sylvia, Vera and Anya on the short walk to catch a tram for Holland Park. More than a month had passed since the Abbey bombing and it now seemed unlikely the police would charge anyone with the crime. Although Elspeth had decided not to participate in further acts of militancy, she still wanted to support the WSPU, and in spite of her previous misgivings she was now looking forward to the public meeting that evening.
The quartet of friends arrived at Lancaster Gate where Elspeth saw a large group of women already waiting at the tram stop. Drawn from all ages, some held placards or furled banners, while others carried flags in the suffragette colours; purple, white and green. A few were wearing a white WSPU sash across their blouses, or, like Elspeth, had the WSPU badge pinned to their chests; a metallic green-and-red shield overlaid with a white chevron engraved with the words “Votes for Women”. There were even two women holding large silver-painted wooden arrows, a sign that these militants had previously suffered imprisonment for their suffrage beliefs. It did not surprise Elspeth to see that Vera seemed to know them both, and gave both a nod of recognition.
A tram drew up at the kerb and Elspeth joined the other women as they pushed to get inside. The carriage was full of evening commuters and Elspeth had to stand in the central gangway holding onto the leather strap above her head as the carriage swayed on its route through west London, the overhead wires humming with electricity, the crackle of sparks flying from the tracks. After a short ride they arrived at Holland Park and dismounted to join a crowd of smartly dressed middle-aged ladies, working women still in their uniforms, and a number of older women, all walking towards the skating rink.
The skating rink was located in a narrow street full of shops and restaurants, and Elspeth could see the wide pavement in front of the entrance was already packed with supporters of the Pankhursts, many of them spilling into the street. Placards had been raised, banners unfurled, and everywhere that Elspeth looked she saw the words ‘WSPU’ and ‘Deeds not Words’ sway above the heads of the crowd. On the pavement on the opposite side of the street, a detachment of constables stood with folded arms and patronising grins. In the middle of the street, four mounted police officers leant on their saddles, watching the crowd with interest. Since the interrogation outside the Abbey, the mere sight of a police uniform sent a spark of apprehension through Elspeth. So she turned her face away and with Sylvia by her side followed Vera and Anya into the crowd, trying to blend anonymously in the sea of bodies.
And it was just as she was worming her way into the thicket of women, that Elspeth heard an excited shout of “she’s here”. She turned and saw an ambulance pulling up at the kerb. As the vehicle came to a stop, the women on the pavement surged towards it and Elspeth had to hold onto Vera as she was almost swept off her feet by the pressure of the crowd. In spite of a group of women stewards – each wearing a white WSPU sash – who tried to hold the crowd back, the ambulance was quickly surrounded. Two men in white uniforms stepped out of the cab and pushed their way to the rear of the vehicle; the back door of the ambulance was opened and the men climbed inside. A moment later one of the men reappeared holding the handles of a stretcher, and a joyous cry erupted from the crowd when they realised the figure on the stretcher was Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst.
In spite of the warm evening Mrs Pankhurst was dressed in a red velvet robe and hat, her gaunt face clear testimony to the effects of her hunger strike. The men carefully manoeuvred the stretcher between two rows of stewards who had linked arms to create a corridor in the crowd, and carried Mrs Pankhurst towards the rink entrance.
Followed by Sylvia
and Anya, Elspeth stayed close behind Vera as she used her height and strength to force a way through the crowd to the edge of the cordon. The stretcher passed directly in front of Elspeth and she looked over Vera’s shoulder to see Mrs Pankhurst waving feebly at her supporters as she was carried by.
And then, quite suddenly, Elspeth heard the piercing shriek of a police whistle from behind her: she looked across the street and saw that the policemen on the opposite pavement had begun to move towards the crowd of women.
‘Bastards,’ Vera cried out, the muscles in her jaw tight, her shoulders taut with anger. ‘She’s only just go out and they’re already going to re-arrest her!’
Cries of anger and shouts of frustration replaced the cheers of the women, and Elspeth steadied herself, holding onto Vera as she tried to keep her feet in the surging crowd. She heard the stamp of hobnail boots and turned to see a wedge of blue uniforms forcing their way into the throng. The police constables at the front of this spearhead – determined looks on their moustached faces and truncheons raised – broke through the stewards’ linked arms. The crowd became a mob, booing and hissing as the police surrounded the stretcher, the stretcher-bearers looking uncertain as they lowered Mrs Pankhurst to the pavement. Another police officer elbowed his way past Elspeth and slipped through the ring of constables surrounding Mrs Pankhurst, and the noise of the crowd faded as he held a piece of paper up in front of his face.
‘Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst,’ he read. ‘Under the terms of the Temporary Discharge for Ill Health Act, I am re-arresting you…’
The Furies Page 7